


Letters Home

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But still finds ways to entertain his lovers, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sherlock is a romantic, Sherlock is away on a case, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is away on a case for Mycroft, but emails all his thoughts and musings to his lovers back home. All of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).



> Poppy has outdone herself again. I loved her prompt so much I wrote this in less than 24 hours. She asked for "Sherlock writing a letter (or, more likely, email) to John and Greg detailing a fantasy of how he'd like to see them together, and/or how he'd like them to share him, once he gets home"  
> I worked in one of my favorite head canons about Sherlock here, so I hope you like it! Hurray for converting more of my friends to my OT3 party!  
> I'm call-me-yt.tumblr.com, as always.

From: Sherlock Holmes <redacted>

To: John Watson <jwatsonmd@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk>

Subject: Greetings from the continent

 

Dearest John and Greg,

Paris is tedious. More than two million people in an ancient city filled with travelers, artists, dignitaries, politicians, and (historically) some of the world’s greatest lovers, and there’s not an interesting motive among them. The highlight of my days has been the few hours between waking and the evening cocktail parties I’m forced to attend at the embassy. I make my way down the _rue_ to a beautiful _pâtisserie et café_ and while away the hours with French pastry and strong coffee, deducing passers-by for my own amusement. I’m also quite pleased to be staying in an English hotel, where I can get a proper cup of tea with my evening meal, when choose to take it. (Please, Doctor Watson, do not worry yourself. I promise I am keeping myself well fed and exercised; not subsisting on _pain au chocolat_ , the odd _hors-d'oeuvre_ , and dirty martinis.)

I've come to believe I am ill-suited for espionage. My skill set is relevant and practiced enough, but I lack the motivation. My brain is stagnating among these people. They bore me. Image concerned, over educated, and uncaring, all of them. I have found myself actually hoping to discover something illegal in their activities, rather than the copious amounts of blackmail fodder I've found so far. At the very least, my investigation shall be coming to a close soon. The military contractor I came here to observe is a bigot, a rogue at the poker table, and his wife is having an affair with the interpreter, but neither of them are traitors to the crown.

As my findings are submitted and my free time grows, I find my mind wandering constantly back to London, and you. It is some small comfort to my loneliness that you have each other there to consort with. I think of you often as I go about my day, picturing you going about yours in tandem: cooking meals, splitting up the morning paper, conversing over coffee… together in our bed. Are you there now, as you read this? Do you think of me and wish I were with you, as I do?

I am writing to you from the wing-backed arm chair in my suite’s salon. It’s helping to foster the fantasy of watching from across the room as the two of you make love. I imagine you, my silver-haired Patroclus and golden Achilles, entwined in passion and taking direction from your young, poetic lover. I would tell you where to touch, and how gentle or firm. At this moment, I’m picturing my darling John straddling your hips, Greg.  I see him impaled on you, hips moving smoothly to take you in over and over, grinding down continually like a pestle in a mortar. I would tell him when to speed up, when to slow, and sometimes when to stop. John’s pleasured moans and whimpers during this particular act are well remembered and a particular favorite of mine. I could watch you linked like that forever, prolonged until you’re both sweating and shaking, fighting your instincts to obey my instructions, to make it last. I would pleasure myself as I watch, skirting the edge of mindlessness right along with you, until all three of us could be lost to it as one.

Perhaps you’d prefer it if I was pressed between you? It is one of my favorite places in all the world to be, after all. Do you remember the evening before I left on this ridiculous errand and the glorious send-off you gave me? Sometimes I imagine I can still feel John moving inside me. I remember struggling to breathe around the girth of Greg in my mouth, and the infinite patience and care with which he moved it away, smoothed the hair back from my eyes, and let me finish sobbing out my ecstasy before filling it again. The sensations were beyond dreaming, and certainly beyond retelling, but I can replay them in my mind with absolute clarity. I know rationally it cannot have been, but it seemed like hours passed there between us in the give and take of love making. Reflecting on it now I must confess: being the conduit of that much earthly pleasure gives one some idea what it must be like to be a God. I’m sure I will know that feeling again soon. Or shall I demonstrate it for one of you?

I long to see you both and my beloved London again. It should only be a matter of days now. Please give my love to Mrs. Hudson, but keep most of it for yourselves.

Yours utterly,

S.H.

Greg’s voice comes up from behind the computer screen, “is it just me, or are his emails very… Byronic?”

John immediately pictures a coyly smiling Sherlock done up in a double-breasted waistcoat, high collared shirt, and lace cravat, his hair parted neatly on the left but otherwise left to curl riotously like a halo around his thin face, maybe even a little kohl under his eyelashes for good measure. He shivers with lust, then laughs at himself and shuts his laptop. “Yup, that’s exactly what they are. I’m starting to think that’s what it’s like in his brain all the time, he’s just too embarrassed to say any of it out loud.” Once the computer is settled on the floor, tucked into the space between their bed and the nightstand, he lays back against the pillows and resumes petting Greg’s hair. The other man is laying on his front, head pillowed lightly on John’s stomach, body stretched out between his spread legs, and hands tucked in under his ribs.

This has been their evening ritual in the few days Sherlock’s been gone. After work is done and a light dinner eaten, they retire to bed to read any emails or listen to any messages from their absent lover together. Sherlock never disappoints in either the frequency or the content of his communications.

“He’s a romantic at heart, but he doesn't want anyone to know. Sometimes I’m still surprised he let’s himself be this open with us. It must be so relaxing for him to finally let it out.”

Greg hums his agreement. “Thirty-some-odd years of keeping all that mushy stuff pent up; must be why he needs two lovers now.”

“You’re one to talk Detective Inspector,” John accuses, with a light poke to Greg’s ribs. “You forget, I read your text messages. I see you brushing up on the French you haven’t spoken since you were a kid so he’ll have someone to speak it with when he gets home, Lestrade. You’re as soft-hearted and love-sick as he is.”  

Greg has the good grace to blush, and the vindictiveness to nuzzle in and lave his tongue over the crest of John’s right hipbone. John jumps and growls and fists his hand in Greg’s hair.

“Oh it’s like that, is it?”

“You tell me. You’re the one half hard against my collar bones. Thinking about what he said in that email? Imagining him watching us?”

“Yes. It turns me on to watch him watching. Do you know how beautiful he thinks your orgasm face is?”

“No idea. I guess I’ll have to make it for him more often. In fact… Where’s my phone? My camera’s better than yours.”

“God, yes.”


End file.
